


You Will Never be My Weakness

by hi_im_grey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_im_grey/pseuds/hi_im_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Never forget who you are, for surely the world won’t. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ~Tyrion Lannister</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, not one jot nor tittle. All glory to Mr. Martin.

The first time had been less awkward than he had expected, and he did not know whether his embarrassment was exacerbated or reduced by the absence of wine. There was fumbling, biting of lips and bumping of noses, all the trademarks. Yet it had been sweet. Tender even. And this from a pale, rigid girl who spent her days serving ruthless dictation to the mass of builders and servants. Winterfell was not going to build itself, as Sansa was fond of saying. And her strength of will seemed to be raising the walls in the Great Hall just as much as the masons. 

Tyrion had seen a glimpse of the fragile, fluttering creature beneath her everyday face. He had seen her writhe, thoughtless, eyebrows furrowed as she let go of her icy calm and caught on fire. After, as he lay panting and enjoying the brief effervescence of the cool air on his heated skin, Sansa bound out of the bed. She wrapped in a blanket and bent to pour them both a cup of water. Her naked shoulder was lit and licked by the firelight and Tyrion felt his stomach twist. Gods, he wanted her again.

The second time took more coaxing, again done by Sansa. Tyrion could not quite trust that her smile actually reached her eyes. He still heard her voice, pleading with him to never join her in their wedding bed. Now her fingers trickled through his hair, streamed down his shoulders, firmly grasped his hands. She seemed drawn to touch him, especially when they were alone, likely to reassure herself that she too was still there. Perhaps they were both starved of some kind of comfort, being the parentless, solitary creatures that they were. 

He tried to use such reasoning as Sansa slid her wet cunt onto his cock, her hips thrusting uselessly until he showed her how to grind and swivel. He was doing her a favor really, keeping her from being isolated from the ones who should love her most, a feeling he knew well. Her shimmering red-gold strands curtained around him in as she leaned forward for a kiss. Fingers ruched in his hair, tugging painfully as she shuddered. Tyrion brought her off with his mouth once more before spending himself inside her. Sansa fell asleep curled up next to him, a careless arm thrown over his chest.

The third time was a reflex, partially born of wine, but mostly of the soft tingle that Sansa’s whisper in his ear sparked. The blame landed squarely on her. She had been the one to slide her cream shift off, tits jiggling as she crawled across the bed to slid under the covers next to him. A smooth hand grasped his cock and her breath rustled the hair near his ear. “My lord … may I…?” He shrugged while tipping the last of the Arbour Gold into his mouth. “..may I taste?” Tyrion tried to show her the empty goblet, but realized, with the sweeping away of covers, that wine was not what his lady asked to sample.

Why he was reluctant to approach his wife he didn’t know, particularly when her clever pink mouth could make him shiver just so. Maybe it was some penance for his sins to have been returned to Sansa like a truculent child. Her fingers grasped his balls, making him arch his hips. He called her name, tugged at her hair so that she would come up and share his pillow. Tyrion peered at her through wine-fogged eyes, flinching when Sansa raised a hand to brush his cheek. She whispered again, “I know I’m not what you wanted, not who you wanted. But we can be…” Tyrion shook his head, shushing her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Never forget who you are, for surely the world won’t. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ~Tyrion Lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail to lovely Mr. Martin. Not mine, even if I wished it so.

Until she had not seen him for an entire day, Sansa was unaware of how essential Tyrion was to her ability to work, to her sanity, to her optimism. She found him wandering, cloakless, through the wreckage of the glass gardens, tear tracks frozen to his cheeks. She knelt, wincing at icy slush seeping into her boots, hands clasped in her lap to check them from reaching out. The urge to scold him, to drag him into her arms was almost more than she could bear, until he raised his knotted brows. The half-smile he offered was a gift Sansa gladly took. She grasped his offered hand, twined their fingers, and did not let go until they were in their chambers.

Tyrion shivered in the middle of their room, dripping on the stone floor. She stripped him, tenderly peeling frozen layers away. He startled when she unlaced his breeches, fresh tears welling up. Unable to bear the grief wrinkling his face, Sansa pointed him toward the bed and began to undress herself. Down to skin, she climbed in and tucked him close. His hair smelled clean and cold, like Winter air. She curled around his unresisting form, enveloping him until the shivering stopped and they both slept. When she woke, he was gone, but returned when the breakfast trays were delivered. He smirked at her mussed hair and offered to brush it out for her after breakfast. Sansa felt the ghost of something let go of her heart.

Making him laugh was as daunting a task for Sansa as learning to parry with a sword. No one, beyond Arya, had dared tease her as a child, and all talk was kept prim and proper as befitted a little lady. The sense of humor she possessed was dry as sun-baked dust on a stone. But her husband had been a funny man, with a dexterous wit that now lay dormant. It was selfish, but she wanted someone to plot with, to laugh with, to tell the silly hopes that still came to her head, no matter how grown-up she pretended at. Being the Stark of Winterfell was precarious, much more so when one was also a Lannister. Wolves might live in packs, but lions had their pride. 

Her bath was tepid, but she had no one else to blame, having filled it herself. Sansa refused any servants beyond those needed to feed the household and assist the masons. Other homes needed rebuilt, not just hers, so if she had to struggle with dress stays a few more minutes in the morning, so be it. Now she shivered and dried off in front of the small fire, scrubbing her skin red. Tyrion stumbled when he entered, his feet and head going in different directions. Sansa giggled, unable to properly cover herself as a belly laugh rumbled through her. After striding across the room, bare-arsed, she could not see if he watched her dress. Once they were both in bed, he let her snuggle close.

Almost of its own volition, her hand slithered beneath Tyrion’s breeches. His cock rose up to greet her, despite his muttered, “Sansa, I can't…”. She did not reply and instead took advantage of his half-heartedness. Could not a wife please a husband for her own sake, as much as his? The taste of his skin was salty-sweet, especially his jaw, right under his ear, the burr of whiskers rough against her lips. Sansa tasted as much of him as he allowed. Her mouth roamed from cock to collarbones, until his hands smoothed down her sides and grasped her breasts. She shivered in delight. Gods be good… that she had ever wondered why couples snuck off to rut in secluded corners… they wanted to sate this delicious hunger. Sansa bit her lip as she came, Tyrion thrusting from the vee of her thighs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Never forget who you are, for surely the world won’t. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ~Tyrion Lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it were mine, these two would be wrapped in a giant bubble of love and sex and babies. Sadly, it is not. All proceeds belong to Mr. Martin & Co.

After being told for the third morning that Sansa was ill and unable to come to breakfast, Tyrion was jostled into action. This break in tradition meant one of two things: either she had tired of his company, and he should prepare for a mob of vengeful Northerners to arrive shortly, or she was truly quite sick. He set off to determine which. Watery light gave him meager assistance in passing through her room, where Sansa lay on the bed, curled like a cat. She saw him and struggled to sit up, but her limbs refused to cooperate. He petted her outstretched hand, letting go only to climb up to join her, a sliver of panic worming its way into his stomach. His little wife would abandon him again just as… as it was beginning to go well. 

The maester shuffled into the room, a tea tray in his wrinkled hands. “Ah! Lord Tyrion. Congratulations on the child. May it be as beautiful as it’s mother and as intelligent as it’s father.” Sansa accepted the tea proffered by the maester, an approving sigh released into the minty steam. The old man hummed as he ground his herbs, leaving more tea brewing for Sansa on the bedside. It smelt of fennel and rosehips, reminding him of sick days abed as a child. Tyrion stroked Sansa’s head where it rested on his lap, the anxious sliver now a gaping wound. His cock had been used to cement an alliance. 

The first, second and third months, Sansa was sick and in bed nearly every day. Tyrion would advise her, dine with her, but did not linger in her rooms. He did not brush her hair nor read to her anymore. He tried not very, very hard to not fuck her. And then, as he lay tingling pleasantly, he angrily resolved again to not give in to her doe-eyed pleading. During the fourth and fifth months, his determination lasted about half a day at most. Sansa was a creature transformed. With fiery hair as her only ornament, she stalked him across her bed. It was like living in a poem, the heroine with rosy-tipped tits and soft mouth, and when she slipped down his body, he was the golden, empty-headed knight. 

In the back of his mind resided Cersei’s voice, miserable and vicious. Her bastard children had saved her life. Would Sansa feel the same about a twisted, little creature that could kill her when it tried to enter the world? Would he? He wandering the battlements, the wind scented with stone and new wood as it whistled its way around him. “My lord…” Sansa’s voice was weak, snagged away in a gust before it reached him. She held a roll of paper in her hand, thrusting it toward him. “The Queen requests you to attend her at King’s Landing.” Tyrion grasped the letter, relief making him jubilant enough to share a smile with Sansa. “Give her my regards, Tyrion.” He watched the hem of her skirts drag through the saw dust.

Tyrion allowed Dany to mother him a little, to grumble about his thinness and ‘that Stark girl’. As if the Queen herself had not handed him over to Sansa, her teeth grinding over the younger woman’s maneuvering to keep her head, house and husband, though no one was sure why she fought for the last. Littlefinger had molded Sansa into an apt player, a mover of pieces. And as little as Tyrion liked it, he had been, still was, impressed by his wife. He sat in the dark, a goblet of spiced Dornish wine and a crumpled letter from the North keeping him company. He tried to conjure up images of dark hair and eyes. He refused to think of a gently rounding stomach, of a sweet voice murmuring to him in bed, of a pale face contorted in blissful agony being gilded by candlelight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Never forget who you are, for surely the world won’t. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ~Tyrion Lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just pretending. In reality, not mine. Not even a single red/golden hair. Mr. Martin owns every beautiful word.

Never had she been so tired, so uncomfortable in her own skin. Nor so fat. Even her feet were enormous. Pregnancy was an ignominy. At nine months and counting, Sansa was a little glad her husband was gone, if only to spare him the sight of her. But she needed her ally, her partner. At least when Tyrion was in Winterfell, she had someone on her side. Not that Rickon and Jon were not helpful, in their own ways. But her brothers had other demands, keeping them too busy to sit with her on council meetings like the one she was currently squirming through. Lord Manderly finally finished his speech on wheat rations… or was it barley? Sansa was unsure. Her back was sore and tight, making it difficult to focus. She nodded to the lingering council members and hurried to her room.

Sitting or laying down proved too painful, so Sansa wandered restlessly about, straightening her sewing basket as she walked. The maester came to check her and clucked his tongue. “You could be in labor milady, or you may just be getting close. Time will tell. I will let the ladies to be ready for you.” She drank her tea while pacing in front of the windows, watching snow shiver down from the grey morning sky. Did Tyrion think of her at all? She wondered if he still visited Littlefinger’s whores or if he'd found new ones. Perhaps someone with dark hair and golden skin to suck his cock. Not gently, she set her cup down and leaned on the windowsill, cheek pressed to the cold glass. Was he fucking his beautiful whore now? 

Unhappy as he was in Winterfell, Tyrion had never found another woman. Sansa had not made him promise fidelity, feeling it beneath herself to make him grovel when she already controlled so much of his life. But once she’d had him, he was hers and she was his. That was the way an alliance was run, and the only happy marriage she’d ever seen. A deep shiver ran through her, followed by cramping pain. Oh sweet Seven, this was it. She was going to be a mother. Her husband was as good as a million miles away with a Queen who mistrusted all Starks and a beautiful whore and all of the court fawning over his cleverness. And she was in Winterfell, alone, except for a stodgy old man and three kitchen maids who hadn’t had a child among them. Excellent. Sansa burst into tears.

Hours later and she was still trudging about the corridors and battlements, a bored maid trailing behind her. The girl’s sighs grated on her nerves, but Sansa focused on the urge to keep moving. Her entire stomach would be gripped in contraction, the pressure on her back enormous, and just when she thought she would break in half, the pain would ease up. And then back to walking. Sansa felt she could breathe more easily outside, and so made a trail around the keep, even though the evening light was dim, until the maester shooed her back indoors. He reassured her that first babies take their time. That, yes, he had sent a raven to her husband yesterday. That she should drink some broth and try to rest.

The walking finally stopped, mostly from exhaustion. Now she just wanted the child out. Her water had broken this morning all over her slippers, making her cry again. She was naked and sweating, rocking on the edge of the bed, her thighs spread. The maester hummed to himself in the corner, preparing wraps for the babe and tonics for her. The kitchen maid snored in Tyrion’s armchair and Sansa wanted to scream at her to get out, but the words caught behind her teeth. Who else would sit there? Hadn’t she gotten what she needed? No.. she certainly had not. Another ripple of pain. Sansa threw up. The maester turned and clapped his hands. “We are close now milady.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Never forget who you are, for surely the world won’t. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ~Tyrion Lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Martin owns it all. I simple toy with his creations.

Two months of the road were behind him. Tyrion’s arse ached. Every inch of him needed a good scrub. Over the course of a day, Winterfell had blossomed from a smudge against the grey line of the forest into a cumbersome creature, naked finger bones of her unfinished towers scratching at a cloudy sky. A cluster of figures stood near the gate, the wind thrashing at their cloaks. The tallest was Sansa. Pale and stiff, she stepped lightly over an icy puddle to lean up and leave a kiss in the air next to his cheek. “Welcome home Tyrion.” 

The second letter had arrived in King’s Landing before there was time to process the news of the first. A child born and then gone. There had not even been the chance to harness a dragon. Sansa’s handwriting urged him to take his time coming home, if it so pleased him. Astounded at her ability to maintain the illusion that he had any control over his life, Tyrion wrested down an urge to hit something, to make it hurt too. Staying in King’s Landing was an easy task, if that was what she wanted. And then he had thought; I will not see her again. The years will pass and I will grow old, but I will not see her again. That night Tyrion was on the road.

His quarters were smaller than he remembered. The ceiling seemed lower, the windows narrower. Perhaps more time had been spent in his lady’s room prior to leaving than he was willing to admit. Or it could be the sheer scale of King’s Landing made him forget that Winterfell, though generous in public areas, tended toward cozy in private rooms. Tyrion sprawled in bed, a book forgotten in his lap, watching a lone candle send out gentle tendrils into the velvety dark. His door creaked open and Sansa’s head poked through the dark gap, a questioning eyebrow arched. Moments later, they were settled under covers, her head pillowed on his arm. 

Sugar and lemons. That was Sansa’s scent. He nestled his face into the crook of her neck, tongue darting out to taste her skin. She snuggled closer, pressing her breasts against his chest, dipping her mouth to catch at his. And it seemed to him that if time stopped, and never moved again, he would not mind. Perhaps he did not love so well the hollow-eyed girl who hardly bent her neck to nod at him during the day, but he admired her. Certainly that was the beginning of something.

Tyrion woke in the night to take a piss. There was nothing delicate about his sliding off the bed and fumbling in the dark, but then he usually did not have a partner in his chambers. Halfway through he heard the ropes squeak and remembered Sansa. After his return, they lay facing one another’s black lumpy shape, listening to the other breathe. He whispered an apology for waking her. “No matter. I’ve not slept much since you left,” she whispered back. Anger and agony left a lump in his throat which, try as he might, could not be swallowed down. Instead of apologizing again, he grasped for her hand, clutched his prize and kissed it.

Early mornings were not his favorite time of day. And yet he was up, his hips refusing to let him rest any more. Sansa lay in tumbled abandon. Her sheer shift was tight across her breasts, fuller and rounder than he remembered. Tyrion’s cock responded predictably. Another time, he might slide her shift up to stroke her with fingers and lips, tits tasted and nibbled until they were pink. His cock would make her cum with shivers and moans. Tyrion would fuck hard and fast, anxious to reclaim what was his. Now he tried to decide if it was more polite to wake her and ask her to go before having a hasty wank. If she were gone, so too would be her breasts. That decided it. Sansa woke a while later, and Tyrion kissed her good morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fingers crossed that my muse does not abandon me. Also, I just want to say that if more perfect people than Peter Dinklage and Sophie Turner exist, I will eat my hat. She is just lovely. And he is funny and damn sexy. That is all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the love everyone! You are all lovely <3


End file.
